Quote me

I don't like castor bean plant.  You can quote me on that.

I should.  I should appreciate its height, its architectual interest, its bold presence, the opportunity to splash some red into the garden by choosing certain varieties, etc.  I should welcome the opportunity for something that combines all of these elements, plus flowers and interesting seedpods, in one tall plant.

I don't.

But please take a moment to put quote marks around "don't like."  Because yes, its true...but I don't harbor bad feelings in my heart toward it, or badmouth it to fellow gardeners, or even wish it didn't appear in my neighbor's landscape.

I just don't want it in my immediate scope.

Which is just how I used to feel about hosta.  Silly pointless rather ugly green elements that form ubiquitous rings around trees and which often were recommended with the caveat that you cut off the flowers and just use them for their leaves.  Sure, I got their advantage in that they grew in shade.  But why grow something ugly just because it will grow there?

Guess what occupies certain nooks and crannies of my yard now, and happily so in my eyes' opinion?

Hosta "June," and not just because that is my birth month.  Love the variegated leaves with an odd bluish green.  Giant hosta...yes, giant, weirdly prehistorical almost, kinda like that castor bean.  Garden variety (nyuk, nyuk wink wink) unnamed cultivar with delightful smelling flowers, which might have been called "August lily" by our grandparents.  Ones that spread with runners.  Functional ones.  Specimen ones.

Of course, I don't cut the flowers off a single one.  Silly advice books.

So there they are, these things which made me go "blergh."  These things about which I once said "I don't like them," and was rather vociferous in doing so.

Fortunately, I knew enough then to never say "never."  So my turnaround didn't exactly bite me on the hindquarters when it came.  A fine lesson for life and it's subcompartments, not only gardening, but parenting.  And home decorating.  And reading preferences.  And perfume.

I've talked about it before, but I took a new route home today, and saw a big planting of castor bean.

I didn't like it.

Quote me.

picture from the blog "Danger Garden"

Dans Tes Bras

I've been sniffing this one on occasion for, oh, say, a year and a half.

The two times previous to this one, I was all "hunh, it's another kind of somewhat powdery violet, really."  Which was a relief of a synthesis, because for a year I'd been waiting to smell these nearly rank mushrooms, thanks to the early word.  And, truth be told, when I finally had my "it's this simple" little epiphany, I also found the mushroom.  It was the effect of violet + something that comes out as it goes into stage 2.  Still figuring that one out, but for me at least, the mushroom "aha!" was all about the collective effect of the notes together, not a spot where one can dig and find a mushroom.

Yesterday, something new happened.  I'm going to try it again, to see if it happens again.  But all at once, I saw/sniffed the following:

Take one

and go bury it in some moderately rich soil.

Watch these sprout from the planting spot

but don't huff quite yet.  Wait until fall, when the roots have become established, and the plant is now fully established.

Now yank it out entire from the ground, and shake off most, but not all, of the dirt.  Sniff, but from the root end, not at the flowers.

Voila!  Dans tes Bras, my nose, early October 2010.

I had the best time with it ever.  There was promise in the not-quite-that-simple powdery violet opening, which revealed the reward of earthy foliage twiggy-ness, all cushioned in comfort softness.  

I want to go back.  I want.  I want even though the third act is, well, a bit of a drop off.  I'm going to drain my small portion, but right now, even as I remain uncertain of the finale, I'm ready to skip the larger decant stage and go straight to full bottle.

Which is partly intellectual--I like supporting Malle's project (as if my occasional relatively paltry investments count as "support"), but mostly emotional/pleasure based.  I want to go there, into that spot of mostly composted dirt where someone unearthed this strange new plant, wrapped in a cashmere blanket and ready to tuck in for a while.

When I wake up, I'll put the plant back in the ground, so I can come back for more next season.

Please take a moment to enter a theory on Ondee On Ice, if you are inclined and have not done so already.  You can play "Clue" style, if you like...either suspect, or accuse....


images:
Blue Violet taken by Scott Schwenk, viewable at the Hubbard Brook Project
L'Heure Bleue bottle from Octavian's 1000 Fragrances blog, in a post titled "L'Heure Bleue, Fol Arome, Pois de Senteur" 

Ondee On Ice

Spy cam image.

What is going on here?  Dear heavens; look closely...that's...that's...a vintage bottle of Apres L'Ondee in the parfum.  And it is...on ice.

Is it time for the flashy newsmagazine reporter to jump out of the shadows and revoke some perfumista licenses?  Or time for FDA enforcers to stop this terrible new trend of infusing cocktails with body scent, because, as IFRA has taught us, they can kill you.

Or should Miss Marple just gather her tea and think for a moment?

(Go ahead.  You think.  What is going on here?  You tell me.  I'll tell you in my next post.  There just might be a Parfums de Nicolai nicely for the best yarn, as well as for the most accurate.)

Fan girl

Scent strips of various vintage perfumes from the Osmotheque, resting in glassines.  Glassines handed to me by the hands of Patricia de Nicolai.

Who had just spent a few hours talking about them and modern interpretations from the same fragrance family she was using each to represent.

With Luca Turin and Tania Sanchez and Christophe Laudimiel and Christoph Hornetz sitting nearby, offering commentary.

Perfume geek nirvana.

I mean, look at the far left.  Iris Gris.  Who can put their nose on that?  Precious few.  And now the far right.  La Fuite Defendu, 1914.  A strapping...fruity floral.  In between, two of my all time favorites, Tabac Blond and Coty Chypre.  Both among those de Nicolai would call "the disappeareds."

Oh, oh, oh.

I had travelled to Washington, D.C. to sit in a seminar hosted by the Smithsonian.  The program I attended was the second of two that weekend; the night before, Luca Turin was the main speaker, and led the attendees through a session on perfumes with five specific notes forming a spine for discussion.  (Read more about this at March's Perfume Posse post; she attended that night.)  

I'm going to go ahead and write about it here, but you'll notice the writing style is a little different.  Because I'm still coming out of the zone I allowed myself to occupy while there:  Stupid.  Because when else was I going to be able to relax and soak up such a thing, and what might I miss if I was too busy trying to demonstrate what I knew already?  Which, of course, is pretty limited anyway.

Details of my day, served straight up:

De Nicolai was the main speaker, and opened with a summary of how and why the Osmotheque came to be.  "Conservation, not interpretation," given a kick start by the materials Jean Kerleo (he of Jean Patou scents including Joy) kept samples of when he retired from the Patou lab.  She then led us through a presentation that basically reviewed perfume families as defined by perfumers (including chypre, oriental, floral, etc.), with a few sidetrips into anecdote and history.  You could have been a newbie, or even just curious (as was one of my tablemates, currently a local resident thanks to her Air Force assignment, and taking in some of what being there had to offer), and be able to follow along.  As an accompaniment to the review of each family, PdN offered a scent strip of a vintage composition from the Osmotheque vault, and then a modern composition from that family.  Citrus was Eau de Cologne a Ste Helene (ca. 1815), with Ckone (1994) as a modern example; her side-by-side for the chypre family was Coty Chypre (1917) with Aromatics Elixir (1971).  Etcetera, etcetera.  

Nicolai concluded with a brief discussion of her own history as a perfumeur, taking time to emphasize that she did NOT ever work for Guerlain, despite her family history, and that her experience working for others included time on the business side before starting up her own company.  Which, she carefully pointed out, she considered to be both a Big Deal and a Big Gamble.  (My words, not hers, but the gist is the same.)

Details, with a twist:

As the talk progressed, Nicolai invited Turin and Sanchez to contribute thoughts about certain perfumes or ideas. If you've read the Guide, some of the comments would have come as no surprise, but it was fun nonetheless to hear them straight from the horse's mouth, as it were.  When fougeres were up, there was talk of whether or not the audience perceived them as masculines, which ended up leading to Turin opining "for a masculine to be successful, it should be a little bit grim."  Much sidechatter at my table about that idea.  (My table included a former decanter, a perfume enthusiast, and the Air Force newbie.)

A pair of nicely presented young gentlemen sat over with Turin, Sanchez, and Nicolai's husband.  They were nodding and clearly engaged throughout, but quiet.  Until, at the end of the day, Nicolai asked one of them to get up and describe his efforts to establish an Osmotheque in the United States.  Ladies and gentleman...Christophe Laudamiel.  Nice.  Next to him?  Christoph Hornetz.  Oh, shoot me now.  (See a Basenotes interview here.)

Nicolai did offer one of her perfumes as the modern example of an interpretation.  She used Violette in Love as the soliflore counter to Vera Violetta (Roger & Gallet, 1892).  I was a bit too fascinated by the green elements in the vintage soliflore -- something in there smells like an herb I use when I mash up for cooking, brain searches, comes up with pesto, not quite right, tries to also incorporate input from the Nicolai scent, is too caught up trying to solve the vintage riddle to register anything other than "pleasant" for the violet.  Fortunately, because we were given sample vials of a few PdN offerings, and Violette in Love was among mine, I can come back to it.  Meanwhile, I'll be huffing on this scent strip, trying to solve the green mystery before the evidence fades.

Details, on the side:

In addition to the fun woman who came because, as she said, "I know nothing about this AT ALL; where better to start learning?," there was a gentleman a few seats down on my other side who clearly was there of his own volition (and not a date or tag along).  The fact that I feel compelled to note his presence is a little disappointing, but I think bears pointing out, given that the audience was clearly majority female, and perfumers (as Nicolai pointed out herself) are primarily male.  I wish I had had a chance to talk with him, find out what drew him there, where he was at in an interest in perfume.

It was kind of funny to see a number of members of the audience start to get squirmy in their seats and hear a murmuring rise as the strips of Iris Gris were prepared.   When Nicolai was done with her part, Luca Turin got up and noted how he thinks it may be the finest perfume of all time.  You could tell who knew what he thought before PdN even got started.  The slide for that family (which she has as a "floral fruity woody" from the "woody floral" family) wasn't even in our handouts.  Methinks maybe it was added as an afterthought.  Thank you to whoever decided to put it in.  (The modern comparison, btw, was Dior Homme.)

The day included two "first time ever" experiences:  First time ever sniffing Iris Gris (on paper, at least). And first time ever asking for an autograph.  

Like I said, permission to be stupid.